A song for a star

You say I’ve never sung you songs in all this time — ten years along — which proves, to some degree, how much I love you. You’ve found the time, you often say, to write about and sing and play so many other topics; is that not true?

And when I offer in defense that love is an experience which falls beyond the edges of expression, you laugh and say, such an excuse is, in its own way, living proof; that there is no songis its own confession.

But if my love could be containedin some trite, overwrought refraincomposed to please the ear,I would not claim it.Inside a thousand symphonies,in whispered wind through ancient trees,no simply melody would darecontain it.

So I will write no other song; and if you think me in the wrong, or simply without feeling, I can bear it.For my love is no simple versefor greeting cards, or even worse;What good are words?They only can declare it.

You say I never sing to you
of how my love is strong and true,and wish for me to comeand serenade you.Under your window, in the night,beneath the moon’s soft glowing light,you wish a lover’s tunethat I should play you.

But if my love could be so sung,each drop of life thus from it wrungin sentimental tones,how could it move you?unless you felt the singer’s core,and knew that there was something morethan simple words,would it not just pass through you?

My song for you is ten years wide;I cannot split or subdivideone hour or two apartto try and woo you.I sing it every day and night;the verses may not be quite right,but they each speakabout, and of, and to you.

I love you. Is that plain enough?I have no masquerade or bluff,no other way than what I amto show it.And ten more years are not enoughto finish it, it is still rough.I only hope that in your heartyou know it.